Yesterday at a cafe, I put sugar in my coffee but didn’t see any cream. Or half-n-half or even skim “milk.” It was a dairy desert.
So I (get this) I asked the not-busy barista if they had any cream.
(I’ll wait a minute for the applause to die down.)
That’s right. I asked somebody for help.
Not to fulfill a life-or-death need, mind you. Not “you’re standing on my oxygen line. Would you please consider, if it’s not too much trouble, moving just a smidge to the right? So I could breathe?”
I think I can usually handle those situations now. Usually.
But this wasn’t important. It wasn’t necessary. It was just a preference, a tiny desire. A desirelet.
And folks, she said “yes!” and pulled a pitcher out of the fridge, and I got cream in my coffee.
Turns out, they’d been cleaning the carafes and forgot to put them back out.
Turns out, I didn’t do anything wrong to create the whole half-n-halfless situation. The barista even seemed glad that I’d asked, as it helped her get back on track in restocking the condiment bar.
It was an all-round success, the kind I would share with people from my planet (wherever that is) if we had a support group for our problem (whatever that is).